


High Maintenance

by ithinkwehitametaphor



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Blow Job, Fluff and Angst, Food, Frottage, Hand Job, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Masturbation, Sex, Slight Canon Rewrite, Swearing, Verbal Abuse, Vomit, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkwehitametaphor/pseuds/ithinkwehitametaphor
Summary: Retching noises fill the bathroom. His knees hurt from kneeling on the floor tiles already, but he keeps rubbing small circles into Steve’s back until the muscles under his fingertips tighten once more and another pitiable sound emerges.Javi scrunches his nose and sighs deeply. The sour smell of vomit pervades the already thick air, chokes the both of them.How? How did they get here? Or rather, why didn’t he just pretend to not be home when the phone rang?It’s too late now. Much too late to run.Steve heaves under his touches, stays still. Then retches some more.It goes on like this for a while until bursts of alcohol and body fluids eventually turn into empty convulsions. Steve's body slackens in his grasp.“You done here?” Javi’s words sound hollow and a bit too harsh with the growing fatigue that settles on him.
Relationships: Javier Peña x Steve Murphy, Murphy x Peña, Steve Murphy & Javier Peña, Steve Murphy/Javier Peña
Comments: 98
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The events in this series take place around season two, episodes 3-5, of the show.  
> Chapters 1-4 are set pre Carrillo's funeral. Chapters 5-8 is set immediately after.  
> The story is mostly canon-compliant but I made some minor re-writes and timeline changes. Once it progresses past chapter 8 canon will inevitably fly out the window...

Retching noises fill the bathroom. His knees hurt from kneeling on the floor tiles already, but he keeps rubbing small circles into Steve’s back until the muscles under his fingertips tighten once more and another pitiable sound emerges.

Javi scrunches his nose and sighs deeply. The sour smell of vomit pervades the already thick air, chokes the both of them.

How? How did they get here? Or rather, why didn’t he just pretend to not be home when the phone rang?  
It’s too late now. Much too late to run.

Steve heaves under his touches, stays still. Then retches some more.  
It goes on like this for a while until bursts of alcohol and body fluids eventually turn into empty convulsions. Steve's body slackens in his grasp.

“You done here?” Javi’s words sound hollow and a bit too harsh with the growing fatigue that settles on him.

A faint nod is what he gets in reply and Murphy tries to scramble to his feet. But he’s drunk and his socks slip on the tiles, sending him reeling.

“Easy, now. Easy!”

Javi jumps to Steve’s side and wraps an arm around his waist. Luckily, he manages to steady the 6 feet 2 of drunk DEA agent just in time before they crash to the floor.

 _Fuck.  
_ They’re close now. Way too close. Javi can smell all that cold sweat, alcohol and vomit on Murphy. It’s the holy trinity of depression.

“You stink like an entire bachelor party. You need a shower.”

Why did he say that? Why not throw the smelly sack of potatoes right into bed and leave? Yeah, no. He can’t do that. The doofus will probably swallow his own tongue and die and then he’ll never hear the fucking end of it ever. DEA AGENT DIES IN HIS OWN VOMIT, the news headline reads.

Steve’s grunts pull Javi out of his dystopian fantasy and eventually, he finds some sort of balance in his partner's arms.

“Peña.”

“What?”

There’s no answer, only more heavy breathing.

_Fucking hell._

Somehow Javi manages to make Steve sit down on the toilet without having him fall over. So far, so good.

“Arms up,” he commands.

Javi peels the dirty blue polo shirt over Murphy’s head and throws it into a corner of the bathroom.

Kneeling down in front of him, he pulls Steve’s socks off.  
One of them is wet and slimy between his fingers and goddammit. Puke. He’s going to kill the man. Tomorrow. When he is fully aware of what’s happening again. It’ll be more fun that way.

Disgusted, Javier cleans his hand on Murphy’s jeans, wipes it on his thigh in an act of petty revenge.

“Can you take your pants off?”

“Peña…”

Javi groans, rubs the bridge of his nose. “Stop saying my name and answer the question, Murphy. Can you take your pants off?”

“'Dis an interrogation?” Steve giggles.  
Or at least that’s what Javi thinks the high-pitched noise followed by an obscene burp is supposed to be.

“Very funny.”

Murphy is trying now, but he doesn’t really get anywhere with his efforts.  
His fingers fumble around uselessly for a while until Javi impatiently brushes the shaking hands out of the way to help him undo the leather belt and unzip the pants.

“Just sit still and shut up. I’ll do it for you.”

It’s a drag but in the end Javi manages to pull Steve up from his seat and makes him step out of the soiled jeans.

“Okay, come on. Hold on to me.”

Steve’s arms wrap around him and Javi drags him into the shower.  
This is definitely too close now, too clingy. Too much bare skin sticking to his own sweaty arms.

“Just do me a favor and don't fall in the shower. Just. Ugh. Don't. Okay?” Javi presses out as he releases Murphy from his iron grip.

For a moment he just stands there with his hand stemmed into his hips and looks at Murphy. He can feel a massive headache coming on.

Even with Steve a few feet away the sour smell prevails.  
When Javi looks down at himself he realizes why. There’s a big damp stain on his pink shirt.  
Fuck, is there any piece of clothing in the apartment the man didn’t get vomit on?

Nostrils flaring, he strips himself down to his underwear and stomps into the shower to join Murphy. _Fuck it._ He needs to clean himself and this is the only way to get Steve to not slip or drown anyways.

The warm water hardly cascades down from overhead when a heavy body presses against Javi and Murphy rests his head on his shoulder.

“Can’t stand.”

“Yeah. I can’t stand you either,” he grumbles.

Even as he utters the words, though, Javi tentatively pats Steve’s back. His hands trail over wet skin, taught muscle, then rest on slim hips.

Ideally, they should clean themselves now but it seems futile to want to fight Steve off for that. Or to expect him to be able to use soap on himself with the state he’s in. Water has to do the trick.

After a while, Javi can feel Murphy press closer into his arms; hot breath floods the crook of his neck.  
In turn Peña’s own hand moves just the tiniest little bit from Steve’s waist further in towards his inner thigh until he can feel the nub of an old appendectomy scar under his thumb. He runs his finger over the irregularity on the otherwise smooth skin, momentarily mesmerized.

And then Steve’s body goes slack against him.

Peña pulls away. “Hey, hey, hey! None of that!”

“Mhm. What…”

“Enough. You don’t get to fall asleep on me in the fucking shower.”

He pries Steve’s arms from around his waist and gently elbows him to the side to shut the water off.

“Come on, Murphy. Out of the shower. Out.”

It’s easier said than done because Steve is not only drunk but almost asleep now, too.

Javi half drags, half pushes his partner's dead weight out of the shower stall and wraps Steve up in a large towel.

Staring daggers at Murphy, he runs a hand through his wet hair, bites his lower lip.  
 _Fucking hell. This is a mess._

Steve is barely able to keep himself on his feet. Water drips from his hair to the floor and he's shaking from the cold.

“Come on you big baby,” Javi mutters and in a last effort of strength they make it to the bedroom where he drops Steve on the mattress with a thud.

“Where’s your underwear?” he asks, pointing at the wooden chest of drawers.  
His jaw clenches. He’s not going to get into bed in wet underwear. No.  
It’s bad enough that Murphy is naked. He needs some last line of defense, even if it’s nothing but a flimsy piece of fabric that separates them.

“Upper right drawer,” Steve groans.

Javier puts on a pair of boxers and sits down on the edge of the bed. Behind him Murphy is huddled under the blankets.  
God, he wishes he could as least have a smoke right now but his leather jacket is in the living room and he doesn’t have the energy to move. Not even for a goddamn smoke.

Every bone in his body hurts and, unable to fight exhaustion any longer, he lies down next to Murphy.

“Don’t… leave,” Steve croaks feebly as he sneaks closer to the only other source of body heat in the bed.

“I’m not. I’m here. I’m the good DEA agent. That makes you the bad one, fyi.”

“Fuck you, Peña.”

“No, fuck you, Murphy. Fuck **you**.”

Javi sounds grim with all that pent up anger and frustration inside but eventually, he gives in to the soft nudges, the cold fingers palming his back and turns around to wrap an arm around his partner.

Their bodies touch under the blanket and it’s a matter of seconds until Murphy is snuggled up to him, head resting on his chest.

Peña finds himself card his fingers through wet blond hair. His fingertips trail down Steve’s back until his hand comes to rest on that slim waist all over again.  
This is the worst case scenario. Intimacy without any form of pre-negotiated contract.  
Javi can feel the heaving and sinking of Steve’s chest against him. Warm air tickles his skin, makes him tense up and then relax into it.

“He threw them out of the chopper, Peña. Just like that. He murdered them, Peña.”

“I know, Murphy. I know. Close your eyes and go to sleep. Go - the fuck - to sleep.”


	2. Chapter 2

A sunbeam scorches his eyelids and the weight of an arm on his throat half chokes him.

For a split second, Javi’s body gears into defense mode, he stiffens and is ready to pounce, but then his lagging brain functions catch up with his instincts and he realizes it’s only Murphy.

Right. Stinky, drunk Murphy.

To his dismay, their bodies are entangled in a weird sort of Gordian knot on the bed. Javi lies on his back with Steve’s upper arm across his throat in a stranglehold. The hand attached to the limb is tucked under his head, cradling him aggressively.

The rest of Murphy sprawls out belly down across his chest and stomach. Their legs are entwined with Steve resting one right between Peña’s thighs.

It is impossible to move, almost claustrophobic, and Javi cannot remember how they got into this compromising position in the first place during the night. It’s as if Steve is trying to crawl right into him…

Speaking of which. He himself might be wearing boxers but Murphy is stark naked. And Javi is pretty sure that’s a raging hard-on pressing against the soft flesh of his inner thigh where the fabric has ridden up far enough to expose skin.

This is worse than last night. It’s worse than being puked on, worse than having his favorite shirt ruined even, because there might be a tiny little part of him at the back of his mind that actually likes the position he’s in this morning.

“Murphy,” he croaks. “Murphy, wake up!”

Javi has to repeat himself several times before the corpse-like weight on him heaves a sigh and comes back to life.

“That you, Peña?” Steve’s voice is muffled by the pillow he’s groaning into.

“Yeah. Who else would it be?”

Who else would suffer through something like this? Murphy fucks things up, Javi comes running.

“Now get off. You’re choking me.”

Steve wiggles against him, takes a deep breath that rattles against his chest. And then lies still again.

“Don’t think I can.”

In an attempt to fight the body on top of him, Javi’s hands claw at Steve’s back; he moves his legs, trying to kick free.

“You don’t think you can?! I’ll show you how, you fucking…”

The insult never comes over his lips. As Javi’s thigh rubs against hard cock, Murphy makes a low yearning noise in his throat so disgustingly simple and explicit that Peña freezes like a deer in headlights.  
No, no, no… Jesuschristfuckno!

But Javi can lay still all he want, it won’t save him because Steve’s hips are moving for real now.

“Please tell me you’re still drunk you sick fuck.” Javi says and mutters more unintelligible curses under his breath.

The hand behind his head comes to life, too. Steve’s fingers bury in his hair, pull gently as another series of grunts emerges.

Maybe he’s fallen asleep again and thinks _Connie_ is back?

“Peñaa –a.”

Nope. No. He hasn’t.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Javi hisses.

This is infuriating. Because he didn’t sign up for this shit. Because he is trapped. And because it feels fucking amazing.

“Nothin’. Not doin’ nuthn’.” The words are breathed into the crevice of Javi’s neck and their warmth sends actual goosebumps down his arms. His fingers dig into the taut muscles of Steve’s back as if they had a life of their own.

Then lips make contact with Javi’s skin, teeth graze along his shoulder. He doesn’t fight it, catches himself gasp even.  
Why is he not fighting that fucker off?!

Steve all but rides Javi’s thigh as he drags his dick along the soft skin, takes as much body contact as he can get out of this.  
Peña in turn cranes his long neck to the side to let Murphy lick the night sweat off of him. He opens up when everything inside him yells that he should shut Steve out.

“Fuck.” It’s only half a curse. “Don’t you dare. Get off. On me.” Pressing out words is hard when moans come so much easier over his lips.

The only reply Javi gets is a nuzzle to his neck and another careless bite.

By now, his cock has shamefully come to life and something about it registers with Steve immediately. It’s the first effort he has made to slightly lift himself.

Hips buck, Steve inches his way up along Javi’s body and releases the strangle hold on his throat.  
The improvement doesn’t last long, though.

Because Steve’s hard-on rubs against Javi’s own through the flimsy fabric of the boxers now and the sensation draws a joint moan from their throats.  
In a matter of seconds, Javi’s brain is mush. His body is mush, too. And Murphy whispers in his ear, nibbles on his earlobe.

“Peñaaaaa...”

Dammit. They’re just two guys helping each other out, right? That’s what this is about. Has to be.

After a few more mutual thrusts of the hips, Javi’s right hand slides down from Steve’s shoulder blade, fingertips grazing the expanse of skin to eventually lodge between their bodies.  
He wavers, wants to draw his hand back, but the warmth is too tempting. Curiosity gets the better of him.

Javi brushes his fingers against Steve’s erection, takes in the feeling of a cock that’s not his own. He has done this before but not with anybody he really knew. Ever. Not gently like this either.

“Peña. Pleeeaaase.” Steve murmurs. There’s a desperate undertone in his muffled voice that works like a charm.

Javi wraps his hand around Steve’s cock and gives it a tentative tug. He feels the veins under the skin, the warm blood pulsing.  
 _Fuck._  
This isn’t nearly enough. _More_.  
He lets go just briefly to pull his boxers down and free his own growing erection from its confines.

They’re on the same page now.

Steve thrusts into the offered hand, desperate for more friction. His soft mewls ring in Javi’s ear and his lips wander to his partner’s pronounced jawline.

Right before Steve’s mouth can meet his, Javi sharply turns his head away.  
 _No.  
_ Too far.  
Definitely NO.

In a gesture of swift revenge his hand grabs both their hard-ons and he tugs. All gentleness falls away and his movements shift into a needy hand-job.

Steve makes a surprised moan and pushes to rub their erections together more intensely. His bucking hips become desperate, the stale breath he puffs out more erratic.

“Peña. Fuck, fuck…fuck…”

Javi closes his eyes. Maybe he can conjure up a sexy thought to drown this out but all his stupid imagination comes up with is a less hungover, less stinky version of Murphy with those damn beautiful big hands and narrow hips. _Goddammit._

He runs his thumb along the tip of Steve’s cock and it comes away slightly wet with a bead of precum. That and the rising moans are a sure sign that Murphy is close.  
Time to twist his wrist a little more.

Barely another minute passes until Steve goes rigid on him and a long-drawn groan announces a wrecking climax.

Under his fingers, against his erection, Javi feels the throb of Murphy coming on him. The smell of cum is in his nose.

It’s enough to make him follow suit with just a few more swift movements.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…FUCK.”

Javi’s mouth falls open, he is louder than he intended, admitting freely to how hard he comes himself.

But the whole thing doesn’t last longer than a few moments at best. Once the first wave of release has washed over Javi, guilt mixes with gratification to poison it.

They’re both sticky, sweaty and covered in cum. Jesus, Steve has spilled quite a load on his stomach.  
Disgusting.  
Satisfying.  
It’s hard to make up his mind.

Then Javi realizes that this is his chance.  
With his hand still lodged between the two of them, and Steve being nothing more than a limp mass, he manages to push him off of himself.  
It’s one last fierce effort before it is all over.

Finally freed, Peña takes a deep breath. Cold air makes his skin crawl with goosebumps now that the warmth of Murphy’s body is gone.

“I need another shower. You made a fucking mess, asshole.”


	3. Chapter 3

Scalding hot water runs down his naked body; steam fogs the bathroom.  
Javi stands in the shower with his shoulders slumped forward as the heat burns the remnants of sweat and cum away from every inch of his skin.  
It’s not so much about rinsing off shame, it’s more like incinerating an entire physical memory.

Eventually, he reaches for the bar of soap close-by and starts to clean himself. Soap bubbles coat his muscled arms and he gives his taut stomach a good rub to make sure nothing of Murphy keeps clinging to him.

_Fucking Steve. Fuck him. Just not. Like that. Ugh._

At least the shower seems to have revived his tired mind and body somewhat.  
Javi’s belly rumbles. He needs food soon. _Good_ food.  
All he had last night was a pack of cigarettes right before Steve called to whine in his ears.  
Usually, cigarettes and coffee would be his first choice for breakfast, too, but unusual circumstances call for unusual solutions.

Javi wraps himself in a towel and stares down at the pile of clothes pooled on the bathroom floor. Fresh underwear and fresh socks raided from Steve’s drawers – he’ll wear his own jeans but – his shirt is a big no-no, reeking of vomit. Ah hell. He’s not going to walk around the apartment shirtless any longer than necessary. There’s been enough nakedness in this place on his part for the next hundred years.

Half-dressed, Javi waltzes into the bedroom where Steve is still splayed out on his back across the bed, one hand behind his head, the other covering his eyes.

“Wake up sunshine,” Peña says, voice raised a tad above his usual volume to make it ring in Murphy’s ears.

The pitiful groan it elicits is definitely satisfying.

He steals another quick look at the indecently spread out form before he turns to Steve’s closet. There must be a shirt that fits him in there.  
Maybe.  
If Murphy weren’t so goddamn tall and didn’t have such ridiculously long arms.

He chooses a dark blue shirt and as he puts it on the shoulders immediately fill out a bit too much. The fabric is a little too tight over his back.  
And the sleeves, the sleeves are… he has to roll them up to make it look less absurd. That’s how bad it is.  
Even the amount of fabric he has to stuff down his pants seems excessive.

“Get up and take a shower, Murphy. I mean it.” Javi stands, hands on his hips, and kicks the bed with his foot.

“Now.”

Steve peaks at him through his fingers, shakes his head, no.

“MURPHY.” Javi kicks the bed harder and stubs his toe, awkwardly jumping on one foot. Damn.

A muffled chuckle emerges from deep within Steve’s chest.

“That’s it. Next time you can haul your sorry ass home yourself. I don’t give a fuck. Never call me again.”

The sharp undertone in Javi’s voice indicates he means business and his partner recognizes it instantly. This is not a mood you want the man in when you have a hangover. He’ll nag you to a long and agonizing death.

“Okay, okay. Calm down, Peña.”  
Steve sits up in bed and squints at Javi. He gives him a lopsided grin, showing teeth.  
“Don’t be angry with me, babe.”

Javi’s jaw clenches, muscles tense. He stiffens and stands up at least an inch taller.

“Fuck you.”

As he turns to leave the room, creaking noises announce that Murphy has moved out of bed.

The smell of fried meat and eggs wafts through the kitchen area. Javi is busy scraping food from a pan onto two platters laid out on the counter. The butt of a cigarette hangs lazily on his lower lip and the smoke mixes with the thick air in the room.

“I thought you’d left,” Steve says. His hair is wet, glistening golden in the sun that shines through the blinds. He has put on a fresh green polo shirt and pants, his feet are naked and softly pad on the floor.  
Sniffing the air more closely as he approaches on wobbly legs, his face turns a shade whiter. Maybe his stomach isn’t ready for this yet.

Javi stubs out the cigarette and shrugs in reply. “No food in my apartment. By the way, you’re out of eggs. And avocados. Beans, too.”

He raises an eyebrow and scrunches up his nose as Steve visibly sways on his feet.

“Now do yourself a favor Murphy and just sit the fuck down.”

They eat at the counter, side by side. But Steve is mostly just glaring, while Javi wolfs down the breakfast he made.

“What’s even in this?” Steve asks as he listlessly stabs around in the strong smelling food with his fork.

“Told you,” Javi says, munching away. God, he’s hungry.  
“Eggs, avocado. Tomatoes, beans. Every piece of left-over food you had in the fridge.”  
He mops up runny egg yolk with a piece of toast.  
“And bacon. You didn’t have Chorizo. You’re an animal, you know? Fucking bacon.”

“Since when are you an expert? Didn’t even know you cook.”

Javi stops his food intake only for a second to glare at Steve. “I don’t.”  
He used to. In another life, that’s done with.

The way Peña eats is something between hypnotizing and sickening. It’s like watching a really bad car crash. It’s messy and staring is indecent but Steve can’t take his eyes off.  
Has he ever seen the man eat anything with such fervor? It’s out of character. It’s lewd.  
How Peña’s jaw moves, cheeks puffed out, how he wipes the egg and grease from the corners of his mouth with his thumb makes Steve _feel_ things. What else can that mouth do?

“Don’t want yours?” Javi asks as he washes the last bite down with an enormous swig of black coffee.

Steve shakes his head and pushes his plate over to Javi.  
“Can’t,” he presses out and has to bite his lower lip in an effort to suppress the impulse to retch.  
Peering into his cup, he ponders whether the dark brew might actually stay down.  
Steve needs the caffeine badly, so it’s worth a try.  
His hands tremble as he wraps them firmly around the mug to sip from it.  
The coffee is strong, barely liquid and he immediately starts to cough in response.

Javi enjoys this. Not only the food, but how Steve squirms in his seat, how his partner’s face goes white like a sheet when he starts working through the second plate as if he’s never had a breakfast as good as this one before.

He’s almost done when the telephone rings.

Steve flinches from the sound and groans but gives no indication that he’s about to take the call. So it’s up to Javi who, after having shoved a last morsel of bacon down the hatch, takes matters in hand and answers.

It’s work. Of course it is. Not that Javi expected Steve to get any social calls. Come in immediately? _Fuck_. Well.  
He got Murphy this far, he can probably get him into work, too.

Javi hangs up the phone and gets a glass of water from the tap, rummages in one of the kitchen drawers.

“Here,” he pushes the glass under Steve’s nose and slams down some aspirin on the counter.

Steve frowns. “Who _was_ that?”

“Santa asking if you’ve been a good boy. And now take your medicine, we’re going to the office.”

Murphy scoffs. “Asshole.” But right now he has to take every bit of help he can get and so bravely swallows the aspirin.

He waits until they’re almost at the office to get his revenge.  
  
“You know, it’s almost funny, you wearing my shirt to work, Peña.”


	4. Chapter 4

It nags at Javi that Murphy let him walk into work in an ill-fitting shirt everybody immediately recognized wasn’t his.  
He can ignore their co-workers’ silent amusement; he can even take Steve’s smug grin and needling comments every time they are alone in a room that day. But what he cannot forget is the chiding look on Carrillo’s face, an expression that made Javi feel like he was 5 years old again and had been caught red-handed at stealing candies.

And now? While they, together with Search Bloc, are chasing down Edgar Prisco in that goddamn pool bar Carrillo’s men staked out earlier this morning, fucking Steve has run off.  
Run off alone right in the middle of their field operation.  
So Murphy is in an unfamiliar neighborhood with a bullet proof vest on and a gun in hand, both of which make him stand out like a sore thumb.  
This is how you end up being shot in the head around here.

Javi radios him immediately but of course Murphy ignores the warning. _Fuck_. If anything happens to Steve, Connie will have his ass in a sling.  
He’d be surprised if someone wasn’t already following Murphy, trying to get a piece of unsupervised gringo agent.

Because running after his partner on foot is a shit idea, Javi gets in the car and drives up the street to look for him. Meanwhile, Carrillo and his men wrap up the operation. It’s fucking embarrassing.

“Murphy! Gavera 37! You need to get up here!” He barks into the radio once more. For fuck’s sake….

Then, finally, Javi spots Steve on a flight of stairs, running towards him.  
He leans over to open the door on the passenger’s side.

“Murphy, get in the car!”

The undertone in his voice indicates more of his impatience and anger than he wants to let on. Yes, he is _worried_.

“The fuck were you thinking?”  
  
Javi throws Steve a dark look as the latter settles into the seat and the car lurches forward.  
His eyes dart to the rearview mirror to make sure they’re not being followed.

“This close.” Steve whispers, emphasizing his words with thumb and index finger.

 _This close to getting your dumb ass killed.  
  
_ Peña keeps working his jaw from left to right as he suppresses a snarky remark. His hands grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.  
To relieve the tension, he lights a cigarette.

For a while they drive through the night in silence, Steve fretting about how he _almost_ got his man, Javi attempting to calm down, puffing smoke out of the half-open window.

He can’t do it. He simply can’t keep his mouth shut. It irks him how much Murphy has gone off the rails lately. It’s dangerous. It’s silly. And he’s not a babysitter.

When Javi turns the car into the driveway in front of Steve’s apartment, he exhales a deep breath and flicks the cigarette butt out on the concrete.

“Don’t ever do that again, Murphy.”

“Do what?” Steve peers through the side window, scratching his chin, pretending to be oblivious.

“Run off alone. Almost get yourself killed,” Javi snarls. “That sort of thing.”  
Fuck, Murphy really has to make him say it out loud, doesn’t he?

“I was _fine_. Nothing happened.” Steve turns to face Peña. “I was _that_ fucking close.”

“Bullshit. All you were close to was getting shot. Jesusfuck. You want to go home in one piece to your wife and kid when this is over? Don’t run off in a neighborhood you don’t know, and in the middle of the night on top of that.”

Steve frowns, his upper lip twitches. “I can take care of myself,” he hisses.

“Oh yeah. I _saw_ that. Not just tonight. Taking care of yourself or as other people call it get drunk, puke your insides out and rut yourself against...”

 _Dammit._ He shouldn’t have mentioned _that_. Shut up Javi.  
  
  
Time freezes, they stare at each other. Javi’s mouth hangs open, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. And then Steve’s hand grips his thigh like a vise.  
A thumb digs deep into the muscle.

_Shit._

Javi’s eyes wander down to look at the hand trespassing the invisible divide between the two of them and dart back up. How he longs to wipe that insolent grin off Steve’s face.

What he _should_ do is push Murphy away. Throttle him a little, maybe. But he’d be acknowledging that this is really happening. Again. And he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of another easy victory.

While Javi does his best pillar of salt impression, Steve’s hand slowly inches towards the inside of his thigh, moves higher and cups the bulge in those tight jeans, then squeezes.

Javi gasps. His nostrils flare as he fixes his dark eyes on Murphy’s. Everything about him is indignation and quiet rage, yet he remains perfectly still.

Encouraged by not meeting any resistance, Steve brings his face closer until Javi can feel hot breath on his cheek.

Stupid Murphy with his stupid lips grazing his throat ever so lightly while he keeps palming his dick. Javi exhales. He knows control is slipping away as his cock responds to the crude pressure.

“Fuck, Murphy…”

“Shhhhh,” Steve whispers in his ear and nips daintily on it. “Shut up now.”

The problem is that Javi’s mind has gone blank in just about three seconds. All possible comebacks have been erased, his tongue lies heavy in his mouth. With every squeeze and rub Javi’s anger trickles over into desperate need.

Murphy chuckles lightly. Nimble fingers undo Javi’s belt and without further ado a hand is shoved down the front of his boxers.  
Peña squirms a little, accommodating to the pressure in the confined space. It’s like a shock to his entire system.

“Asshole,” Javi presses out but the word ends in a soft moan when the teasing hand actually wraps around his cock.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut it?”

Steve’s tongue licks the night sweat off Javi’s neck like it’s some sort of precious nectar. It’s obscene with what kind of fervor he smacks his lips.  
And Javi suddenly finds himself biting his tongue to suppress another groan.

Steve is merciless. His fingertips brush the tip of Javi’s cock. He drags things out now that he’s finally inside Peña’s pants, strokes his entire length, exploring every vein, every irregularity of skin.

The treatment borders on torture.  
  
Spellbound by the intensity of Murphy’s touches, Javi lets his head roll against the car seat. His mouth hangs open, his arms remain idle at his sides.

Suddenly Steve pulls back and Javier mewls to show his disapproval.  
But Murphy is merely taking things further by finally releasing his partner’s erection from its confines.  
Without giving it much thought, Javi lifts his ass a few inches, makes it easier to strip the jeans and underwear away.

There’s a quick shuffle as Murphy readjusts his body in the right position to lean down into Peña’s lap.

Fuck. _Oh FUCK._

A velvety tongue glides along his cock, maps its full length. Moist lips wrap around the sensitive head.  
How is Steve’s mouth so maddeningly soft? It’s not fair!

Javi’s hips attempt an impatient buck to make his cock sink deeper into the comfortable warmth but Steve uses his body weight and hands to hold him down in place.

Murphy still takes his time, licking, sucking slowly but with fervor. All Peña can do is card his fingers through the blonde mop of hair and hold on to that. Whenever his grip tightens too much, Murphy stops what he is doing, though, and that’s no good. Definitely not.

“Steve, fuck… Steve…” he bites down on his index finger to stop himself from rambling on when that nasty tongue teases the tip of his erection.  
Since when is he using first names anyway?

The response to Javi’s pathetic name-calling is a very rewarding hum around his cock. There’s a slight pause and it’s as if somebody has flicked a switch in Murphy’s head. Exploration time is over.

Steve sinks down on Javi’s cock, taking in as much as he possibly can before his gagging reflex sets in, only to pull back and do the same move all over again. He deliberately presses his tongue against the dick in his mouth to increase friction.

Within a matter of seconds Javi comes completely undone. His moans ring out in the car, topped only by the slurping noises that come out of Steve’s mouth.  
He doesn’t last long, not that he even tries.  
His fingers grapple Steve’s hair one last time tonight. He bucks and unloads in Murphy’s mouth in long spurts, cock throbbing with the intense depth of his orgasm.

Steve takes it all like a trooper, swallows as much as he can, let’s Javi ride out his climax.  
Eventually, he has to pull away, though, to catch his breath.

He leans back and stares at Peña, mouth open in a vague grin as his thumb drags along his lower lip to clean off leftover cum. Then he sucks the digit coyly into his mouth.

What an asshole. Steve is celebrating his victory, isn’t he?  
It’s unbelievable but Javi has to face the fact that no amount of cigarettes and whiskey would have lifted the tension between the two of them as perfectly as what has just happened.

He tucks his cock back into his pants as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

“You should go wash your filthy mouth, Murphy. So get the fuck out of my car. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Steve merely sticks his tongue out at Javi and makes sure to flip him off before banging the car door shut.


	5. Chapter 5

Javier Peña doesn’t do funerals. He does whiskey and cigarettes.

And so, lounging on the sofa, he has been pouring himself drinks and lighting smokes since mid-morning.  
If he does get up occasionally, it’s only to take a leak or to shuffle about aimlessly, maybe to change the record on the player.  
Sometimes he glares at the phone but never actually makes an effort to call anybody.

Daylight oozes into dusk like honey dripping from a spoon.  
And although Javi wouldn’t admit it, his ears prick up every time he hears a noise in the hallway. Are those footsteps? Could be Murphy. He should be home from Carrillo’s funeral by now. Could he have missed him come back?

Why is he even thinking about that?

To keep himself busy, Javi lights a fresh cigarette. When he leans over to flick the ashes off, however, he realizes that another still rests burning on the ashtray.  
With a curse under his breath he takes a deep drag and puffs the smoke towards the ceiling. Fuck that. What a waste.

His mutterings are enough of a distraction for him to miss the actual footsteps approaching the apartment door. The knock that follows them makes Javi sit up on the couch.  
For a second he isn’t sure if the sound was real or whether he imagined it.  
Then there is another tap. A voice.

“Peña. Hey. Peña. Are you in there?”

The words are muffled through the door but Javi can tell that Murphy’s tongue is just as heavy with alcohol as his own.

_Don’t let him in._

Thoroughly ignoring his own advice, he scrambles up the three stairs to the entrance where he pauses a moment to smooth down his shirt.

Javi leans against the doorframe, cigarette hanging from his lower lip as he greets Steve in a pose of feigned indifference.

“Murphy. What do you want?”

“Came to see if you’re okay and brought you this,” Steve replies and waves a bottle of alcohol wrapped in a brown paper bag in front of Peña’s face.

“Not that you deserve it after you ditched the funeral,” he adds.

Murphy elbows his way past Javi and puts the bottle down on the couch table.  
“You do two cigarettes at once now?” He reaches out for the abandoned smoke to take a drag, gracing the continued silence with a raised brow. “Seems a little excessive to me.”

“Fuck you.” Javi slams the door shut behind Steve. “I told you I wouldn’t go.” He works his jaw from left to right, stems his hands in his hips.

“Calm down Peña.” Steve puts up a hand in appeasement. “I’m not here to fight with you. Not on a day like this.”  
He sinks down on the couch and starts to unwrap the drink he brought in emphasis of his words.

For a few moments Javi watches him with hawk’s eyes, doubtful of the reassurances.

It’s only now, in the dimmed light of the table lamps, that he really picks up on the forlorn expression on Steve’s face. The blue eyes are empty, lined with dark circles and his partner’s fingers shake visibly as they peel brown paper off the yet unidentified bottle. You can see how this day has worn him down, drained even the last bit of color from his waxen features.

Javi closes his eyes briefly, lips pressed together. _Oh fuck._ His shoulders slump forward; the tensed muscles relax.  
It’s just plain heartrending to see Murphy like this.

He sits next to Steve on the sofa at what he considers to be a safe distance and puts the remainder of his cigarette out in the ash tray.

“I can’t do funerals. Not anymore. Okay?” Javi whispers.

“Mhm. I see why,” Steve offers.  
It’s not like this was his first one either.  
He unscrews the cap and drinks right from the bottle, then offers it to Javi who takes it from his hands.

“What is _this_?” Javi wrinkles his nose. “Bathroom cleaner? Are you trying to poison me?” There’s a hint of indignation in his voice but it’s all in good faith.

Steve chuckles. “Cheap bourbon from the corner store. I think? Not sure about the label.” He reclines into the cushions and puts an arm on the backrest of the couch.

For a while they pass the drink back and forth in silence.  
The alcohol burns in Javi’s mouth and throat but not being so goddamn lonely makes even that bearable.  
He reaches for the last cigarette out of the pack on the table. When he leans back and turns his face towards the ceiling to blow the smoke upwards, his head bumps against Steve’s arm behind him.

Perhaps he should move off that. He doesn’t.

“Aren’t you going to share the last one with me?” Steve asks.

Javi nods and offers his cigarette to Murphy. Why not. They’re already drinking from the same bottle anyways.

“You’re greedy. But I will make an exception,” he needles.

Murphy smirks and gently blows a cloud of smoke in Peña’s face as reply.

“That’s not how this works,” Javi chides in a low voice.

He takes the cigarette back from Steve’s hand. Their fingers touch for the briefest moment.  
Then Javi inhales deeply, brings his face close. Slowly, he releases the smoke as Steve opens his mouth to suck it in.  
They shotgun the entire cigarette, seemingly lost in their need to connect and eventually, their lips meet when Javi blows the last drag deep into Murphy’s mouth.

But he breaks away, chuckling.  
The cigarette is stubbed out and his head rests back against Steve’s arm once more as if nothing had happened at all.

“Tease.” An undertone of hurt pride mixes with Murphy's protest.

“Oh, shhhhhh….”

Javi rubs his head against Murphy’s arm in a placating gesture and Steve’s fingers immediately find their way into Peña’s hair to tousle it in retaliation for being shushed.

Under normal circumstances this would make Javi freeze or struggle but tonight isn’t normal. Tonight is alcohol, cigarettes and suppressed pain. Tonight is naked longing for human touch. The whiskey has torn down most of his defenses long ago.

“This is nice,” he hears himself say out loud against his better judgement.

That’s it. That’s all Steve needs to hear to lean in closer, seeking comfort against Peña’s shoulder.  
“How do you do it?” he asks. “Deal? With no closure? Not even a damn funeral.” His tongue is slow, the words drawled and shaky.

“You really want to know how I usually deal?”

“Yes.”

There is a long pause.

“Like this.”

Javi’s eyes meet Murphy’s. His hands cup Steve’s face and he kisses him full on the lips. “This is how,” he whispers and dives in for real.  
Steve immediately melts into his arms and opens up for him as if he’s been waiting for this kiss all day.  
Javi can taste cigarettes and alcohol mixed with stale breath. It doesn’t matter. He lets his tongue explore Steve’s mouth nevertheless.  
There’s no resistance, only a series of compliant moans that encourage him to press closer until Murphy lies on his back on the couch and he can rest on top of him.

Javi’s thumb strokes Steve’s cheek as they continue to make out. He wishes he could spare his partner this sort of sadness. The kind that’s going to haunt them over and over. He wants to make it better somehow and it shows in the tender way he nips on Steve’s lower lip and rubs the tips of their noses together.

Eventually, Javi breaks away to take a breath.  
No, he hasn’t planned on saying anything at all but the words are suddenly there in his head. They tumble out of him without warning.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s all my fault. I never should have trusted the information. I---”

To hear himself say this out loud makes the feeling of guilt he has been trying to suppress so much more real. Javi shudders. His body convulses and he is desperate to break away from Steve. All he wants to do is run.

Murphy doesn’t allow it. He keeps his arms tightly wrapped around Peña, struggles to hold him in place.

“I should never have trusted the girl. I should have known _better_.” There’s a sharp edge to Javi’s words and he is still shivering uncontrollably.  
“I wasn’t even there. I couldn’t even _do_ anything.”

“Bullshit.” Steve whispers. “They would have killed us all. You know that. We’d be fucking dead and in the ground, too. We’d _all_ be dead.”

Yes, of course he knows Murphy is right but it’s hard to accept that their presence wouldn’t have made a fucking difference. They would have been just as helpless.

“But—”

“Hush.” Now it's Peña getting shushed as Steve puts a finger to his lips.  
“For once. Just hush and listen.”

Murphy presses Javi to his chest and combs his fingers through dark strands of hair.  
“It’s not your fault. Never was. It’s fucking Escobar. He killed Carrillo, not you. And it wasn’t our fault either that we couldn’t be there when it happened.”  
Yes, it’s making him furious, too. He burns with resentment but not because of his partner’s decisions.

Javi sobs and hides his face in the crevice of Steve’s neck. _Get a grip. Calm down. You have to pull yourself together._

All he can seem to do against the sudden onslaught of unwanted feelings is to focus on the sound of Murphy’s breath and to synch the rise and fall of their chests.  
Steve’s body is warm and his hands are so soft. The faint smell of cologne and sweat on his skin has a soothing effect.  
Alcohol has broken Javi down but it has made him more pliable, too.

“It’s okay. Just close your eyes. Tonight’s your turn to go the fuck to sleep.”

Javi is certain he’ll be sorry tomorrow. His back and every bone in his body will make him regret this. And that is only the physical side of the matter. But he’s so damn tired and sleep _does_ seem like the perfect way to forget.

“I hate you,” he mumbles and places a kiss on Steve’s neck.

“I know, Javi.”


	6. Chapter 6

A sharp pain shoots from his neck right into his brain the second he moves his head. _Fuck._ Just as expected, every bone in Javi’s body hurts because the damn couch is much too small to comfortably hold two grown men.  
He moves off Steve, struggling to free himself from the arms around him and makes an effort to stand up. Leftover alcohol in his system has his head spin.

For a while Javi simply stares down at Murphy’s form, brows knit into a frown.  
It’s still dark outside and the streetlights flickering through the blinds tinge everything in an eerie orange light.

“Peña?”

“Hm?”

“Where you going?” Steve’s hands pat around in search for Javi.

“Bed.”

There’s a muffled groan in response. “Don’t go.”

Javi sighs. He rubs the bridge of his nose.  
Yes, he shouldn’t give in to this nonsense but he’s very tired, still somewhat drunk and it might only be a couple of seconds until the figurative sledgehammer finally splits his forehead open from the inside.

“Get up, Murphy. You’re coming, too.”

He grabs hold of Steve’s clammy hand and pulls him into a sitting position. “Come on. A little help here. I’m not going to carry you.”

Somehow they manage to stumble up the few stairs to the kitchen area and Javi gently turns Steve towards the bedroom.  
“You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute. Please try not to vomit on anything.”

“Fuck you, Peña.”

Javi shuffles into the bathroom where he rummages in the medicine cabinet for much-needed painkillers. He unceremoniously downs too many pills with too little water and takes some to go.

In the bedroom, he finds Steve snuggled up under the covers, head pressed into the pillow. Is he sniffing it? _Jesus_.

“Here, brought you a gift.” Javi sits down on the edge of the mattress and holds out a glass of water and some aspirin.

“Sleep…”

“Yes. You can sleep but first you’ll take your medicine like good boy.”

He pulls the covers away with one hand, finding that Murphy has somehow managed to undress himself in his absence and is wearing nothing but boxer briefs.

“You’ll thank me for this later,” Javi mutters in an effort to cover up his surprise.

Eventually, with a lot of groaning and tossing around involved, Steve complies and sits up again. It’s a bit chill without the blanket and the window half open, so following Peña’s orders seems like the path of least resistance.  
He takes the glass from him, their fingers touch; eyes meet in the dark. And then he downs the pills with the water like a man dying of thirst.

“Okay. Good.” Javi breaks the silence. It really seems to him like his gaze has lingered a bit too long on Steve’s throat, watching while he ravenously swallows one gulp after another.

“Now go back to sleep.”

Javi puts the glass away and as Steve goes back to pressing his face into the pillow, he takes the time to undress. Why should he be uncomfortable when Steve isn’t?

He lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling, waiting for the aspirin to kick in and soothe his throbbing temples.  
Now and then he turns his head to steal a glance at Steve.  
With the physical pain ebbing away, the constriction in his chest returns. Javi’s thought’s circle around the missed funeral once more. Goddammit, he is so tired but sleep won’t come.

When he crawls under the covers with Steve, presses his body against his back to spoon him, Javi tells himself it’s because the draft from the open window drove him there. But deep down he knows that’s a lie.

“I thought you’d never join me,” Steve whispers and takes Javi’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest.

Noon finds them both awake but stock-still in bed.  
It’s a sort of Western stand-off they’re having and whoever admits consciousness first loses. With the fog of alcohol cleared away and the protective blanket of twilight around them gone, the way they hold each other seems much too soft.

Just when the rising tension is about to snap Javi’s clenched jaw, Steve cautiously lets go of his hand.  
Immediately, Peña moves away from Murphy’s body, rolling on his back.

The best way to shut himself up now, Javi decides, is to reach for the cigarettes on the nightstand and light up a smoke. Like this, he can purposefully ignore what’s going on right next to him where Steve sits up in bed and cards his hands through his tousled hair.

“Don’t get used to this,” Javi hears himself say into the silence. _Fuck._

Steve raises his eyebrows, gives him a quizzical look. “Used to what?”

“This.” He gestures around the bedroom with his free hand.  
Great. Now he admitted that something has happened between them.

Steve turns towards him. “This? As in your bedroom? Or this - as in you showing some actual emotion? Don’t think I’m getting it yet.”

“You can’t just expect me to hold your hand every time you’re shit-faced and depressed, is what I’m saying.”

The look Steve gives him is a mixture of pain, hurt pride and indignation. Murphy’s eyes narrow. “I came here to see if you’re okay. And if I remember correctly, you weren’t exactly sober yourself.”

“I was **_fine_** ,” Javi insists in a childish effort to defend himself. “At least I didn’t need you to come over to hold my hand while vomiting my heart out.”

“Fine? It was Carrillo’s fucking funeral that you ditched. You were FINE!? Are you shitting me, Javier? Don’t you think I didn’t see what was going on!”  
  
Oh, oh. Now Murphy is pissed. And he’s just getting started it seems.  
  
“If I remember correctly, you’re the one who had a nervous breakdown about trusting the information that made them all run into a death trap. You literally _sobbed_ in my arms!”

Javi’s face goes blank. His jaw moves, teeth grinding. Too much, too far. Definitely too far. “Don’t, Murphy. Don’t fucking go there.”

“Why not? It’s the truth! And you tell _me_ not to come to you and whine about shit? What is your fucking problem right now? What is your fucking problem?!”

Javi squishes the cigarette stub out in the ash tray as if it were a bug. His dark brown eyes glare at Steve.

“You’re my problem. YOU. ARE. MY PROBLEM. Your fucking attitude. I saved your DEA ass when you beat up that business suit at the airport. You’re so eager to be part of the tough men’s club but you can’t even handle a goddamn sicario falling out a helicopter. You’re so smug about yourself but you’re dumb enough to run off during an ongoing operation. Alone, basically with a sign on your back that said shoot me. You’re a fucking liability, Murphy. And I’m sick of worrying about you. I’m sick of your dumb face looking at me like that and your stupid smile and your innocent blue eyes with their long blond lashes. And…”

“Oh, fuck you, Javier. Fuck you!”  
Steve bares his teeth at him.  
“You don’t get to blame me for everything that’s wrong with _you_. You don’t get to **_do_** this to me!”

The words barely register with Javi because his mind is still reeling from the things he said about Steve’s eyes and smile and face.  
What the fuck is wrong with him?

There is a long pause as he stares daggers at his partner.

“I get to do whatever the fuck I want to you,” Javi blurts out.  
And without further warning, he cups Steve’s face with both hands and draws him into an aggressive kiss.

It all happens so quickly, Murphy doesn’t even have a chance to pull away.

Already, Javi’s tongue presses inside Steve’s mouth and claims it as its own territory.  
A hand moves down to Murphy’s throat, thumb pressing hard into the ridge between the collarbones.  
Their kiss hasn’t a single trace of last night’s sweetness left. It’s a declaration of war expressed through bites and nips and emphasized by a choke-hold of the neck.

When Javi finally gives Steve an inch of breathing space, it’s only to hiss at him. “I get to do _whatever_ to you. Understood?”

“Fuck you, Javier.” Steve’s anger hasn’t exactly diminished but it’s clearly redirected to a physical plane. He’s clawing at Peña’s back and rakes his nails over smooth skin and muscle.

Nothing could drive Javi madder than this. Steve is not pushing him off but pulling him closer. The audacity!

“You little shit,” Javi huffs and throws Steve back into the mattress with his full body weight to straddle his hips. One of his hands is pressed firmly on Murphy’s chest to keep him down, then he retaliates further by forcing desperate kisses on his partner’s throat, sucking until the blood vessels under the pale skin break and unfold into purple bloom.

But Steve gladly offers more of his neck and, grunting, he shoves his hands down Javi’s underwear to dig his fingers into firm butt cheeks.

“I’ll fucking put you in your place,” Javi warns.

“Really? And how are you going to find the nerve to do that?”

The words are nothing but fuel to the flame and Javi immediately shuts Steve up with his mouth and tongue. His hands are everywhere, making every inch of Murphy’s body his own.  
Their hips grind together furiously. Javi’s cock strains against the fabric of his underwear.  
He drags his lips along Steve’s neck and chest, all over sweaty skin until his teeth find a pert nipple to graze. His fingers claw at Murphy’s boxers to pull them down.  
If that asshole thinks, he’s going to back down now, he’s dead wrong.

And so Javi works his way further down Steve’s body. He leaves a trail of bruises and scraped skin behind while Murphy writhes and bucks under him. But the loud moans speak volumes of how much Steve is into being roughed up.

Eventually, Javi’s tongue has followed the blond tufts of treasure trail far enough to make contact with Steve’s cock. He pauses a moment before licking the length of it.  
Teasing a little, Javi blows hot breath on the wet skin.

Steve’s hands claw at Peña’s hair, digging into and pulling at the soft strands in retribution.  
For a while Javi lets it slide. He’s too busy sucking Steve’s dick, decking it in saliva and twirling his tongue around the tip.

“Peñaaaa… Fuck. Fuck….”

It’s actually Steve himself reminding Javi that he’s got a very different plan and that finishing him off in his mouth is not part of it.  
He tears himself away from Steve’s grabby hands and the deliciously hard cock between his puffed up lips.

“Turn around,” he rasps.

“Hmmm?”

Javi slaps Steve across the thigh, leaving a trace of red stripes.  
“I said, turn the fuck around.”

To his surprise, Murphy doesn’t even flinch but scrambles up and flops over on his belly. The only sign of resistance he shows is a mumbled “Fuck you, Javier….”

Impatient hands cup Steve’s butt cheeks, spread them apart and with a huff, Javi dives in, tongue making contact. He is greedy and he lets Steve know by the way he squeezes and mauls him as his tongue presses inside of him.  
All of this belongs to Javi now.

Reduced to nothing more than a writhing, moaning mess of a body within seconds, Steve’s hands take a hold of the sheets for support. He instinctively pushes back against Javi to get more of him inside, more of the tongue that splits his sensitive area open so beautifully.

Peña is merciless in his ministrations but at the back of his mind he has an inkling that Steve is pretty new to a treatment like this. He takes his sweet time, waits until Murphy’s mind is gone far enough before pushing his thumb slowly into the saliva-lubed puckered hole.

And Steve gasps, stiffens momentarily, but then presses back against Javi’s hand with a loud moan.

For a while Javi simply keeps his digit inside, mouth pressed to Steve’s skin, sucking bruises all over his ass cheeks. When he finally begins to move his thumb, Murphy is already desperate for it. His hips roll in synch, knuckles whiten as the grip on the sheets intensifies.

“Peña, please. Please…”

“Please what?” Javi spits, and he curls his thumb to tease Steve even more. “You think you can take more.”

The answer is a muffled yes as Murphy shudders under him.

“Don’t move then.” Javi orders him. “If you move, I’ll throw you out the apartment,” he warns.

“Just,” Steve gasps. “Just. Shut up. And **_do_** it.”

Javi pulls back, leaving Steve all unattended and empty.

Luckily, the nightstand already holds all they need because Peña likes to be prepared. Condoms, lube. Ample supplies for all occasions are right at hand.

As soon as his underwear is dealt with, Javi gives his cock a few eager strokes. He makes quick work of pulling the condom over his dick and spreads a good amount of lube on it, too.  
Someone will definitely get more than he bargained for when he came over last night.

All the while Murphy lies motionless on the bed, whimpering softly, with the blanket caught in his fingers.  
  
Javi glares at the expanse of his back. It’s a bit out of character almost. Steve has never been as compliant before. It’s also hot as fuck.

A slight shake of his head, then Javi tears his eyes away and focuses on what he needs to do. He dips his thumb in lube and carefully slides it back inside Steve’s ass.

“This what you want?”

“No.” Murphy huffs. “ ** _More._** ”

Javi chuckles and after a few slaps of his hard cock against Steve’s butt, he can’t hold back anymore. The tip of his dick pushes against the glistening hole and sinks inside it.  
 _Fuck_. It’s so tight and warm and maybe he’s a bit too eager, going a bit too fast.

“Shit. Oh shit,” Steve presses the words out between gritted teeth. “Go slower!”

It’s impossible to get away from Javi, though. His hands have taken hold of Murphy’s hips and he firmly keeps him in place as the whole of his length disappears into his ass.

“Javier… Fuck!”

He leans over Steve, places a kiss on his shoulder. “Shhhhsh. Shut up. You’ll love this. Trust me.”

To cut Murphy some slack, Javi keeps still, buried inside him but not moving yet. It’s only fun if he can continue to make Steve come undone.  
And indeed, after a few more deep breaths, Steve slowly relaxes in his grasp.

Javi’s hands stroke Murphy’s back and then settle on his hips once more. Lube facilitating the motion, he carefully starts to move. _Shit_. This feels so much better than it should.  
He grunts, giving Steve a few more slow but deliberate strokes, keeps going at that measured pace until he can feel Murphy move as well, until the roll of the hips starts up again and his partner is mewling softly.

“See,” Javi mutters. “I told you. You’ll like this.”

Every stroke riles Peña up a little more, edges him further towards his own pleasure and soon enough their motions become more frantic. Their thrusts quicken until skin furiously slaps on skin and Steve is panting, all but shouting out Javi’s name.

Fuck. Javi can feel his orgasm coil up deep in his stomach. But this won’t do. Not yet. He slightly changes angle, thrusts in Steve’s ass all over again. And clearly, this time, he’s hit an especially sensitive spot. Steve lurches an inch forward as a surprised moan falls from his lips.  
“Right. There. Fuck!”  
This is all it needs for Javi to know he’s found Steve’s prostate.

A bit more of the same and Murphy suddenly goes rigid under him coming hard and without warning.  
“Peña!!!”

Javi groans. How rude! Not even giving him the slightest warning to let him join in the fun!

Retribution is swift. His hands dig hard into Steve’s sides until they bruise and he keeps fucking him relentlessly. There’s no way Javi can last long like this. The tight warmth, the clawing muscles are too much for him.  
He manages to pull out just in time, to take the condom off and squirt a huge load all across Steve’s bare back.  
His hands linger a moment longer on Murphy’s hips, then they both collapse into the cum-soiled bed sheets.


	7. Chapter 7

In retrospect, it might not have been the smartest move to fuck Steve this morning. Nor to kiss him for about ten more minutes after everything was over.  
But as they had lounged on the bed, gasping for air, all sweaty and spent, something must have gone a bit mushy in his head for Javi remembers the feeling of Steve’s warm and suddenly very soft tongue in his mouth vividly.  
And the smug grin Murphy had given him before going upstairs to his own apartment – that he remembers, too.

Later in the evening, not even the three whiskeys the barkeeper had pushed in Javi’s direction in quick succession had been able burn the taste of Steve out of his memory.  
Nor were the various black coffees he’d had in case Don Berna really came to meet him much help.

Oh and Berna _did_ show up, too. Wanted to negotiate a deal.  
Unfortunately, Javi had been angry and confused enough to follow him.  
What a dumb move. Strike one, Steve. Strike two, Berna. All in one day.

“I want to help you.”  
Fuck that.  
The only person Diego Murillo Bejarano wanted to help was Judy Moncada – and thereby himself. Fucking narcos.

Now Javi stands in front of Steve’s apartment, contemplating what to do. The little piece of paper with the address scribbled in black ink on it almost feels like it’s burning hot as he turns it over in his hands.  
Curtesy of Berna, Javi knows where Maritza, the woman who sold them out to Pablo Escobar and got Carrillo killed, hides.

Problem is, he has no idea how to handle the information. Go to her himself? Tell Murphy? He wants to but…  
Yeah, no. He can’t tell Steve shit because of all that happened last night, this morning…  
Because he needs to _protect_ Steve.  
He can’t have his partner freak out and beat up people again if he doesn’t want him to get send to the US to an exclusively invented desk job in some DEA cellar room.

Javi hits the door with the flat of his hand in frustration. Fuck this.  
He quickly shoves the slip of paper in his pocket, turns on his heels full circle. His hands are stemmed into his hips as his tongue flicks out to glide over the row of his lower teeth.  
Shit. SHIT.

After what seems like an eternity, Murphy opens and it’s pretty obvious he’s not really sober. He’s dressed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt. That’s it. A tee? Peña can't even remember Murphy owns t-shirts.

“Javi?” Steve’s voice is thick, he yawns shamelessly. “What’s going on? Something wrong? I thought I’d see you tomorrow.”

Javi doesn’t answer, makes his way past Steve into the apartment where he then stands, hands still glued to his sides.

“Are you going to tell me what’s the matter or do I have to guess?” Steve runs a tired hand through his tousled hair before crossing his arms over his chest.

“Were you asleep?!”  
There are at least four or five empty beer bottles on the small table by the couch. The ash tray is spilling over with cigarette butts and a balled up blanket lies on the floor.

“Maybe. Yes. Do I need to make up excuses now why I dozed off after a drink in my own fucking apartment?” Murphy pauses to lightly massage the bridge of his nose.  
“Javier. Please. What happened?”

“I can’t tell you,” Javi spills out, then immediately goes silent again. Shit.

“If you cannot or _will_ not tell me. Then why are you even here?”

Peña’s jaw works from left to right. His eyes dart around the room but painstakingly avoid Murphy. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I guess… I had nowhere else to go.”

Either Steve doesn’t have the energy to fight or he doesn’t want to anymore. It’s hard to tell from Javi’s point of view because Murphy just looks so goddamn tired all of a sudden.  
And before he knows what’s happening, Javi is caught in one of those awkward -not quite a hug- embraces. Steve’s arms are around him but don’t really touch. A hand hovers over his back but there’s a long-drawn pause, much too long not to be uncomfortable, before he is patted on the back.

“Did you have anything to eat today?” Steve finally asks. “Cigarettes and whiskey don’t count.”

“I don’t remember,” Javi says, trying to dodge the bullet.

“So that’s a no.”

The upside of the situation is that Steve lets go of him to make his way to the kitchen counter. The downside is that he returns with half of a sandwich on a plate.

“Don’t- Murphy. No-”

It’s too late, Steve points to the couch, making Javi sit down and places the food in front of him.

“Yes. Eat. Now.”

Javi shudders visibly. “I’m not going to eat your leftover sandwich, Murphy. How old is that even?” He pokes at the bread and wrinkles his nose. “You want to poison me?”

“Oh, shut up, Peña. I made this,” Steve turns to take a look at the clock, “two hours ago. Cut it in two but only ate one half. It’s as good as new!”

“I bet you touched it all over with your sticky fingers to lick off the mustard around the edges.”

Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You didn’t mind my sticky fingers this morning,” he says calmly.

 _Ouch._  
There’s a low grumble before Javi takes a hearty bite from the sandwich. He chews, nose twitching, swallows.  
“Is that a fucking bologna sandwich?” he mutters but keeps munching away. “Uncultured swine.”

Steve sits down on the sofa next to him. His eyes never leave the grinding jaw muscles, the mustard specked lips and glowering brows of his partner.

“You got a new hobby?” Javi says in-between bites.

“What?”  
Confusion is written all over Steve’s face.

“Because you keep staring at me whenever I eat. You think I didn’t notice?”

A light snort is the only reply. Then Murphy leans in to rub off a spot of mustard from the corner of Javi’s mouth with his thumb.

“You’re stalling, Peña. Why are you here? Why haven’t you eaten all day? What is wrong?”

The piece of paper with the address smolders in Javi’s pocket. Jesus, Steve really won’t let it slide. But he’s resolved to keep his mouth shut.

“Nothing. It’s private.”

“Private. You’re so full of shit.” Steve snorts.  
His face comes so close, Javi can smell the damn bologna on his breath as they stare each other down.  
There is really nothing he can say to resolve the situation without starting a fight or spilling what he knows about Maritza. No, he absolutely won’t do that.  
Which of course means the only feasible solution is for Javi to passionately press his lips on Steve’s to shut them both up.

Their mouths clash. Hunger wells up inside of Javi. His tongue pushes its way forward to meet Steve’s but Murphy brings up a hand to his face to hold him back.

“You think you can throw me off with that?” he whispers against Peña’s lips.

“Yes.” Javi swallows hard, yet never breaks eye contact. He can feel Steve’s thumb press against his throat, the other fingers firmly holding on to his jawline.

For a moment it seems like this is not going to work.  
But for all his teasing, Murphy still breaks down. His hand slackens and sinks against Peña’s chest.

Javi takes his chance to pull Steve close once more. They’re all nips and kisses and within seconds, everything else seems far away. What counts is the taste of Steve’s mouth, the feel of his lips and the tingle of his moustache against Javi’s skin.  
He needs to forget about his meeting with Judy Moncada, about Maritza, and Carrillo’s death.  
Currently, the only thing that seems to do the trick is pressing Steve into the cushions and straddle him, while they cling to each other.

“Is that why you really came here?” Murphy pants in between kisses. “Couldn’t wait to see me again?”

Javi pushes his hands under Steve’s shirt and rakes his fingernails over the bare skin underneath the clothing.  
“Oh, who’s full of shit now?” he grumbles and twists one pert nipple. “I see you all the time. In my fucking nightmares.”

Murphy chuckles and his hands come up behind Peña’s neck to pull him closer. “You dream of me?”

Ah, this won’t do. He swoops down, following the direction in which he is moved. “You little shit---”  
Javi bites down on Steve’s lower lip stopping just short of drawing blood. He stuffs his tongue down his partner’s throat. It’s even better than he remembers from this morning. How?

Under him, Murphy moans. One of his hands moves into Javi’s hair to muss it up and pull on it. The other grips that long neck harder, fingers digging into the muscle.

They grind their hips together and Javi feels Steve’s hard cock even through the fabric that still separates them.  
 _Fuck. More._  
He pulls his hands away from Murphy and frees himself from his jeans, wiggling in an effort to pull the pants further down over his butt – and the underwear right with them.

Steve eagerly lends a "helping hand" and squeezes Javi's bare ass.

Just as Javier is about to go for his partner’s cock in return, the phone rings.  
 _Fuck that._  
They have better things to do right now. Like, repeat what they did this morning. And Murphy seems to agree because he doesn’t make the slightest effort to get the call.

The phone keeps ringing relentlessly but Javi is too busy tugging at Steve’s boxer shorts to notice that the answering machine has sprung to life.  
That is until Murphy suddenly goes rigid under him. He stops, listens. A female voice is talking in the background.  
 _Connie!? Shit. Oh shit…_

“Get off of me,” Steve hisses and pushes him away as passionately as he had pulled him close only minutes ago.

“GET OFF!” Murphy’s voice breaks, topples as he screeches at Javi.

Peña hastily scrambles backwards and almost falls over his own feet because his pants are still half way down around his legs.

“Steve…” he says in an effort to calm the situation down.

“Shut up! Get away from me!”  
Murphy sits up on the couch, recoils as if Javi were poison. All the while Connie rambles on in the background, leaving whatever message she has on the answering machine.

“You don’t get to DO this to me! Don’t fucking touch me!”

Javi is tempted to ask what _exactly_ he doesn’t get to do this time around but instead he hastily puts his pants back on and takes a few steps away from the sofa. Maybe this can still be handled?

He holds out his hands in a placating gesture.  
“I got it, I got it. Stop screaming, Murphy. Calm down, please.”

Oh, but Steve is far from being done yet. The show has only just begun.  
“None of this happened! None of this **ever** happened,” he presses out. “You don’t get to do this to me, Javier! That’s my **wife** on the phone! You don’t get me mixed up in something like this! Not anymore! Shit. How the fuck am I supposed to calm down? You don’t tell me what to do! You’ve done enough!”

Right. That’s it. That’s definitely a step too far. _He_ has done enough? As if this was all _his_ idea alone?

“I GOT THAT. I got that your wife is on the phone! You don’t have to be such an ASSHOLE about it! It’s not like you seemed to mind what we were doing until just now! YOU wanted all of this, too! You don’t get to pretend I seduced you against your will. You are in this as much as I am!”

Steve is up and about on his feet. His face is red with anger, there’s that fire in his eyes Peña remembers from after Pacho Herrera had Murphy kidnapped.

“Get out of here! Just get the fuck out of my apartment! My private life! Get out of my family life and stay away from me! You’re fucking everything up!”

Javi’s lips quiver, the hands are back at his hips. “You’re pathetic, Murphy. This didn’t mean _anything_ until you freaked out. You think I want to marry you? Break up your family?” He laughs bitterly. “You’re so full of yourself. It was **just sex** until **now**. If anybody made it something more, it’s _you_.”  
And with that being said he storms out of the apartment and downstairs to the garage.

It takes some more minutes before the initial pang really hits home.  
Javi’s fingers tap nervously against the steering wheel of the car as he cruises aimlessly through the city. He puffs smoke through his lips, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Fuck Steve. As if _he_ hadn’t been the one so eager to suck dick. As if _he_ hadn’t shown up with more alcohol the other night. But now it’s all supposed to be his fault? Of course. Because Steve is a saint who doesn’t cheat on his wife and he’s the promiscuous villain. If anything is more infuriating than the whole clusterfuck of a situation itself, it’s Steve’s goddamn black and white view of the world. Good guys, bad guys. Ridiculous.

He has tried to protect Steve and this is what he gets.  
 _Get out of my family life._ That one line cut more than all the others combined. How stupid to assume Steve even gave the faintest shit about him. How naïve to assume that maybe they were _friends_.  
That’s what you get when you mix feelings and sex, Javier. A crap load of troubles.  
Maybe it’s time. Time to forget about all this nonsense and go back to the way things were before Murphy arrived.


	8. Chapter 8

**JAVIER**

The last couple of days have been stressful for Javi. His life has proven to be more of a haunted house ride, really, than the proverbial roller coaster.

His resistance eventually broken down, Javier had used Don Berna’s information to find Maritza. Painfully, though, Javi had to realize she had been used as well. Maritza knew nothing, was no more than a pawn. His investigation hadn’t gotten him any further.  
And as he wasn’t in any mood to share information with Steve after _the incident_ , he had teamed up with Trujillo instead to go after one of Escobar’s sicarios.  
Newly instated Colonel Martinez, however, didn’t want them to pursue the man, even when they had pinpointed his whereabouts.  
So, in the end, Peña had found himself calling Don Berna to get things done despite the fact that the info on Maritza had been completely useless.

Right now, looking back at everything, Javi isn’t sure what irks him more, the Colonel’s conservative tactics or Steve’s willingness to go along with that dull bullshit. You could say they were practically forcing him to work with Berna, no?

Oh, how he hates this supposedly new Steve. Wasn’t Steve the one so fucking eager to follow Carrillo everywhere? Wasn’t Steve the one who almost got sent home for freaking out in that airport bathroom? Wasn’t he the one to almost get himself killed, running off alone?

It’s amazing how Javi’s mind keeps coughing up the same old grudges, an assortment of incriminating mantras, again and again and again.

All that shit Murphy made him go through, and suddenly he is content to sit and **_wait_**?  
God knows Javi is used to being one step behind Escobar and his men but at the moment it feels like they’re at least two steps back.

Well, except for yesterday of course. There’s that.

Ah fuck. Javi slumps down on the couch, puffing on his cigarette. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the gun pointed at Martinez’ son. Can’t forget the look on that boy’s face. Fear of death written all over it.  
Deep down Javi knows he fucked up, that this was way too close to home. Those goddamn Castaños almost shot Martinez Jr.  
Why did Berna have to cooperate with those idiots?

He flicks the cigarette into the ash tray and massages his temples.

As if things weren’t bad enough, Javi blames himself for underestimating Steve. He’s not sure just how much Murphy figured out but it’s obvious that he knows he’s mixed up with the Castaño brothers.  
It was clear from the moment he saw Steve’s face go from anguished resolve, ready to shoot, to that frown of contemplation when the immediate danger was over.  
After all these years he knows what his partner looks like when a revelation dawns on him.

Javi has gone over the ensuing conversation with Steve a million times.

“At least this way I’m on the inside and I can control it. Make sure it doesn’t go too far.”  
  
“So that doesn’t go too far? The good guys have guns pointed at their heads and the bad guys get away with it.”  
  
“Who are the good guys, Steve? It’s us?”

The whole exchange is still giving him a headache. Does Murphy really believe playing by the rules will make him a good guy while he, Javi, is the bad guy? Bullshit.  
It’s insulting. For Carrillo’s legacy, too. Carrillo was a good guy, right? Right!?

Javier gets up from the couch and paces the living room.

“It’s not **_me_** I’m worried about,” he hears Murphy say.

Oh yeah? If Steve is so fucking worried about him, then why did he act so butt hurt when Connie called? Fuck that.

He’s been thinking about that one line forever. And if he’s being honest with himself, he can’t quite place it. What is he supposed to _do_? Get out of Steve’s life but at the same time be the nanny at work, making sure poor agent Murphy hasn’t got anything to worry about?

Javi needs something to take his mind off this mess.  
Under normal circumstances, he would call one of his female friends. It’s not like he hasn’t picked up the receiver about five times already today. Each time he put it back, though, rather torturing himself some more.

It really shouldn’t be this _hard_ to go back to the way it was before Steve.  
He has used sex as a coping mechanism for stress for years and it has always worked perfectly well.  
But somehow it seems _wrong_ now and that just makes Javi angrier.

For a few minutes he keeps staring at the phone, jaw clenched and working. No. He doesn’t feel it, and after the embarrassment of last time, he decides not to go for it again.  
The only reasonable option left for tonight is to go to bed alone.

Javi flops down on the mattress, lights another smoke. One hand behind his head, the other holding the burning cigarette, he stares at the ceiling. There are a million things he should have said to Steve. And what did he do? “At least this way I’m on the inside and I can control it. Make sure it doesn’t go too far.” Blah, blah, blah. Why did he even try to placate and convince Steve he was doing the absolutly right thing?

Stupid Murphy with his dumb ideas about good and evil.  
Murphy, whose face always comes a little too close when chiding you, blue eyes fixed on yours.  
Javi can still feel the warmth of Steve’s breath on his chin and lips, smell the cheap cologne wafting through the air.  
He can will all the little physical memories of their conversation into existence so perfectly, it’s disconcerting.  
Oh, how much he wants to grab that man by the collar and shake the concerned and indignant look off his face once and for all. How much he wants to beat the insolence out of him. Make him shut up.

With his dick. In that gorgeous mouth.

 _Fuck._  
Javi’s mind keeps betraying him. It’s always the same frustrating cycle. As soon as he gets really mad, he somehow conjures up the light chuckle in Murphy’s throat right before that blowjob in the car. And that in turn comes with detailed memories of Steve in his lap, tongue teasing the tip of his cock.

Javi groans and quickly puts the cigarette stub out in the ash tray.  
Then his hand moves to slowly palm his dick through the boxers.  
How is it possible that he’s not in the mood to call someone for sex and yet one thought about that dumb moment of weakness and he’s getting hard already?

Actually, there’s no mistaking what’s going on here but Javi would rather bite off his own tongue than admit it. Besides, he has more pressing matters to attend to…

Stripping the encumbering underwear away, Javi gives his cock a first gentle stroke. Deep down he wishes it was Steve’s hand doing this to him, Steve’s saliva wet thumb teasing him.  
Maybe he blow job in the garage hadn't been the best he’s ever had but it was definitely high ranking. Murphy knew what he was doing. That velvety tongue had pressed against a hard cock before, there was no mistaking that.  
  
Javi keeps stroking himself, pace slowly increasing.  
  
Another unwelcome thought crops up in his mind. So Steve has sucked dick before? Javi wasn’t the only one?  
  
He groans, gives his dick a desperate tug. Heat pools in his groin and jealousy clouds his thoughts.  
Steve is married, yes, but the thought of that mouth on another _man_ drives him fucking crazy. He’s supposed to be _special_ to Murphy…

Javi bites his lower lip. Shit, he’s close already. One hand is busy with his cock, the other cupping his own balls.

_Steve’s hand around his dick, Steve’s moist tongue circling, flicking…teasing… eventually the overwhelming feeling of coming deep down Steve’s throat._

“Fuck, Murphy, oh fuck…” Javi presses out between clenched teeth as he cums all over his own hand and stomach.

But Steve is not here. He’s alone in the bedroom. It’s just him and all those goddamn feelings.

\----

**STEVE**

When he boards the airplane to Germany, Steve still thinks getting away from Javier is a bright idea.  
He had felt pretty smug about himself, hanging up the phone at the office, grabbing his passport to be off and follow Escobar’s family to the airport.  
Javi’s puzzled face had given him a feeling of deep satisfaction then.

“Where are you going?”

“Going OUT.”

“With your passport?”

“Yep.” Ha!

After what Steve takes to be a blunt betrayal on Javier’s part - working with the enemy- it serves his partner right not to be trusted again so soon.  
Besides, he is up to the task. Messina thinks so. He can do this alone without Peña playing nursemaid.

The only trouble is, now that he is alone on the plane, what he is really doing here is slowly sinking in.  
He pursues women and children to keep them from escaping the dangers of Colombia so that the government can use them to blackmail Escobar into submission.

“Who are the good guys, Steve? It’s _us_?!”

Javi’s words painfully remind him that behind the ethical conundrum of whether the end justifies the means there lurks another, more personal dilemma. One that is even more distressing and no less connected to the question whether he’s the good guy.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t miss Connie and Olivia. It’s not that he doesn’t _love_ his family. Quite the contrary. If it were that, he wouldn’t have freaked out the way he did.  
Thinking about _the incident_ with the answering machine sends a wave of shame through his body and makes his face flushed with the heat of sudden guilt all over again.  
The thing is, he’s miserable in Colombia. He’s lonely. And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t really stay away from Javi. That dumb, grumpy idiot is his best friend. Only friend. Just a friend…

Steve shakes his head as if that could get the confusing thoughts out of his mind.  
He makes an effort to divert his thoughts by leafing through all the free magazines on offer but it’s not working. Every ad showing a happy family reminds him of being away from his own. Every good-looking dude photographed to promote aftershave or wrist watches has Javi’s dark brown eyes and sensuous lips. _Fuck that._  
Maybe he should try to get some much-needed sleep. After all, where the hell are the Escobar’s supposed to go, caged in as they all are on this goddamn airplane to Frankfurt, Germany?  
Right. Nowhere.

The real problems start _after_ the plane has landed.

Hurrying along into the pre-customs area of the airport, Steve makes it to the closest payphone just in time to call Bogotá before the Escobar’s arrive.  
The news Messina gives him aren’t promising at all. The Foreign Ministry doesn’t want to cooperate. German authorities don’t particularly care that Tata Escobar wants to enter the country with her children and mother-in-law.

There is nothing illegal about this unless…

A thought occurs to him. Pablo Escobar would never send his wife anywhere without a sufficient amount of money!  
And so Steve bluffs. Lies.  
Kind of.

“What about transporting a large amount of foreign currency?” he asks the customs officer who has denied his request to stop the Escobar’s from entering the airport proper.  
Shouldn’t that count as smuggling here, too?

It is a long shot but it’s enough for German border police to listen and ask for details.

“I’m a hundred percent certain. _That_ burgundy bag,” he presses out with urgency.  
Fucking hell. He’s not certain at all but still points at the big purse Tata Escobar is holding so tightly in her arms.

Steve watches, silently prays, as the customs officers walk over to stop her so they can take a closer look.  
 _Bingo!_  
One of them reaches into the bag and pulls out packages of neatly stacked bills wrapped in plastic.

Under protest Escobar’s wife and family are ushered into an office. All Steve can do is wait – and watch.

He sits down on a bench close-by, stealing glances through the large glass front of the room, and fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.  
The smoke is flat, just like the air on the plane. Even his taste buds have succumbed to the general blandness of things.  
Steve exhales, closes his eyes for a second.

Then German border police usher a man in a gray suit into the fishbowl room. Seems like they brought a translator.  
The ensuing conversation is short and emotional. Steve can’t make out the words. His Spanish is bad enough as it is, lip reading anything is out of the question entirely.  
But the expression on Tata Escobar’s face is plain as day. She’s indignant, proud… scared.

As far as Steve can see, the officers take the bag away, the money and the passports, too. Then the entire entourage leaves the Escobar’s to themselves. The glass door clangs shut.

The kids are wrapped up in jackets, eventually, and curl up on the padded chairs as best as possible. The women talk softly with each other, then fall silent.

Meanwhile, Steve is brooding. And this time there is no escape. Not even sleep.  
  
Deciphering deep symbolism has never been his strong suit but he knows that this limbo of an airport is, in condensed form, exactly what the last two weeks without Javi have been. This is what his life in Colombia will become without Peña. It’ll be him, a snack machine and an eternal space of stale air with silently moving cleaners occasionally mopping the beige PVC floors.  
Goddammit. He shouldn’t have gone without Javi. Shouldn’t have been so smug about it either. It’s too late.

Steve passes the time smoking and buys one of each snack variety from the vending machine. The empty packaging provides sparse reading material – not that he speaks German anyways… but everything that takes his mind off of feeling guilty towards Javi, towards Connie and the children of Tata Escobar is welcome.

The wait may have taken days or just three quarters of an hour. It sure felt like a miserable eternity but eventually the customs officers and the translator return. They bring back the passports and the bag. The money is gone, though.  
There’s another short and intense conversation between the Escobar’s and the translator.  
And Steve knows he has won.

Seven officers escort the family to a plane headed for Colombia. He can barely look up as he drags on his last cigarette, following at a safe distance. Part of him feels guilty, part of him is just happy to leave this place even if it means going back to Bogotá and not the States.  
At least Messina will be pleased that the job got done.

Steve wakes up with a start. He unfolds the brown leather jacket he has used as a pillow and puts it on. Outside the window he can already see the lights of the city glitter in the dark. The plane is descending. This nightmare will be over soon, he tells himself again and again.

When the passengers are allowed to exit the plane, Steve finds himself still trailing the two women and their children. His job is officially done but deep down it doesn’t feel right to let them fend for themselves here where danger is much more imminent than in a German customs office.

He lingers behind for a moment while the Escobar’s leave the airport, buys a new lighter and a fresh pack of cigarettes.  
Outside, Steve politely keeps a distance and waits close-by behind a column.  
He has never seen anybody look so forlorn.

A car comes around the corner and slows down. Is that it? Is that the first ambush at the family?  
Without giving it another thought, Steve approaches, hand at his weapon. He moves between the Escobar's and the approaching vehicle.  
The car goes by.  
Steve steps away, releasing a deep breath when suddenly two large, black jeeps speed up to them with screeching tires.

It all happens very fast.  
Two men with guns jump out and immediately aim at Steve.

“Policia Nacional! Get down!”

Steve has his weapon ready. “DEA!” he shouts.  
But it’s no use being outnumbered as he is.  
He gets down on the wet concrete, watches the Escobar’s being ushered into the second vehicle.  
The few Spanish words he can make out translate to something like “attorney general”, “protective custody” and “don’t worry.”

So he watches, helpless as the cars drive off into the night.

“Fuck…” Steve picks up his weapon, body snapping up from the ground like a coiled spring. He is breathing hard, frustration seeping from every pore. His hand slaps the concrete wall hard. “Shit.”

There’s nothing left to do but to go back home.

As soon as the apartment door closes behind Murphy, exhaustion hits him like a sledgehammer. His shoulders sag, he sinks into one of the chairs at the dining table. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey greeting him that he empties in record time.  
The last drop catches in his throat and he coughs, nearly choking, until his eyes water. With an angry growl, Steve wipes the bottle from the table with one arm. It clatters to the floor.  
 _Fuck this. Fuck everything._  
The tears keep coming even as the constriction in his throat subsides.  
He did what he was told to do, probably brought everyone a step closer to catching Pablo Escobar, yet it feels like a failure. A goddamn, utter failure.  
Steve’s hits the table with his fists, once, twice until his hands hurt too much to go on.  
He hides his face in his arms, ashamed of being weak, ashamed of everything he has done.

Is he supposed to phone his wife and tell her about his awful trip to Germany? How could he do this to Connie? Bad enough they’re apart from each other. Bad enough she has to raise Olivia on her own. He can’t talk to her about this. Not because she wouldn’t understand but because it’s not fair to put this burden on her as well.

There’s only one person who would know how to handle so much shit out of the blue without so much as batting an eye.

  
He misses Javi like hell.


	9. Chapter 9

The dull knock on the door seeps into his dreams. As the noise swells with urgency, it rips the mists of sleep apart until its acute reality can no longer be ignored.

Javi sits up on the couch and rubs his eyes. He winkles his nose in disapproval. The living room smells of cold cigarette smoke and alcohol.  
Last night must have been just as pitiful as the one before. Not that he remembers much.

It takes a minute or two before he gets up to see what the commotion at the door is all about. Stumbling over an empty whiskey bottle, Javi almost keels over.

“Shit… JUST GO AWAY!”

Whoever wants to see him is relentless in their abuse of the apartment door.

“I’m coming. Fucking hell. I’m COMING.”

A quick look at the clock confirms his suspicion. It’s 4:30 am. Who the fuck comes to see him at that time of night? Or day, for that matter.  
Javier already knows the answer: Still he peers through the spyhole before opening.

“Murphy. What do you want?” he barks but the words catch in his throat.  
 _Jesus fucking Christ._

Steve Murphy is a hell of an ugly crier. His face is all blotted and puffed up, his nose is snotty. The red circles around the eyes make him look feverish and sick.

Javi should be appalled. That’s what he tells himself.  
What he actually feels is an overwhelming urge to hug the shit out of Steve.  
He hasn’t forgotten, though, and is far from forgiving.  
The clenched jaw indicates that his brain is currently catching up with the situation as a whole. Complicated decisions are being made.

Steve doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even dare to look at Peña.

Eventually, Javi’s eyes soften somewhat and he takes a step aside. “Come in, you big idiot.”

Six feet two shuffle past him and Javier shuts the door with a loud whack.

He walks back to the couch and sits down.

“So are you just going to stand there and not talk to me for the rest of the night?”

Steve’s lower lip quivers, he takes a deep breath but there’s still no reply. With a jerk he sets himself in motion and joins Javi on the couch.

“No, I’d rather _sit_ and not talk,” he mumbles, voice thick with emotion.

Javier massages the base of his nose. “So Germany. Not so great, I take it?” He grabs a box of Kleenex from the table and drops it in Murphy’s lap.

“Wipe your face, you look like shit.”

Obediently, Steve blows his nose. “Messina told you about Germany, eh?”

“She didn’t have to but yes. I’ve been told you brought them back. So what is the problem here?”

“You don’t see any problem with holding women and children hostage to get to Escobar?” Steve mumbles.

Javi groans. “ _This_ is your problem? You think these women don’t know what Pablo Escobar does? Who he is? You think they’re just innocent bystanders?”

“No. Of course not. But the kids don’t have anything to do with it. And you didn’t see their faces when they were back in Colombia and practically abducted by the National Police.”

Javier lights a cigarette and takes a drag. “No, I didn’t because you were so eager to go alone.”

“I was told to go alone. And you know exactly why Messina phoned _me_.”

Slowly, Javi turns to face Steve, deliberately blows a little smoke in his face. “Is that why you came here in the middle of the night? To dangle this in front of me again?”

Murphy shudders, shakes his head, and immediately Javier feels sorry for what he said.

Tears well up in Steve’s eyes again.  
“They thought they’d get killed. Actually, I thought so too. It would have been on _me_ , Javi.”

_Ah fuck._ Javier places the cigarette in the ashtray and turns back to Murphy. “You know that’s not true. That’s just bullshit. You did what you had to do. You completed the mission.”

Steve shrugs, “Doesn’t feel like it.” There’s a sniffling sound. “Nothing is right, Javier.”

“So you don’t look like a complete mess only because of Escobar’s family, eh?” Peña huffs. He tries hard to check the sting in his voice but the bitterness prevails.

“It could have been my family, too. What if something happened to Connie and Olivia?”

“Your wife and daughter are in the States. They are safe,” Javi hisses.

“Yes but what about you?!” Steve bursts out.

“What about me?”

“What if something happens to you?!”

Murphy looks up from his own hands and pushes the box of Kleenex away.  
“I wouldn’t know what to do if anything happened to you!”

Javier isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. “I’m _not_ your family. You made that pretty clear,” he says with no small amount of venom.

“I didn’t mean that,” Steve whispers. “I didn’t mean to say what I said that night.”

“But you did say it nevertheless. And that’s that.”  
Javier reaches for the cigarette again, smokes as if his life depends on it.

“I’m SORRY, Peña. I am. I’m sorry about everything.”

Javier raises an eyebrow. His jaw locks. Then he suddenly spits “Saying you’re sorry about _everything_ is not good enough, Murphy. What’s that even supposed to _mean_? Everything. You cannot come here with a nebulous apology and think it will fix what you said.”

Steve flinches as much from Javi’s words as from his manner. “I freaked out, okay? I was confused. I was scared.”

“I _noticed_ , Murphy. I was there. I was there when you threw me out on my ass, screeching insults in my face.”  
There is a brief pause as he flicks the cigarette stub in the ashtray, then Javi resumes his tirade with fresh fervor.

“You didn’t seem very confused to me. Nor scared. What would you be scared about except your own hide, eh? Isn’t your life after Colombia already all neatly carved out for you? With a family and a place to return to?”

Desperation paints Murphy’s face. “I _was_ scared. I _am_ confused. Because – because I love you. But I love her, too. That didn’t change. You think that’s not a LITTLE bit confusing and scary? I can’t do this you and me thing because one day I will want to go home to the woman I love. And I also can’t not do it because… I love you, too.”

Peña’s mouth drops open. He stares. For the first time in a long while Javier is completely speechless. It’s late. He is tired and his brain seems to lag behind with what is currently happening. _Love._ Oh, please. He must be hallucinating.

Steve sits with pursed lips his blue eyes bore into Javi’s brown counterparts. His face is still puffed up and blotchy. His lower lip starts to quiver as the silence between them stretches thin.

“Why?” This is not exactly the word that Javier had planned on saying. “Bullshit.” That wasn’t it, either. _Fuck_.

“I don’t know.” Murphy presses out. “And it’s not bullshit. It’s real, Javier.”

If there is one thing Peña gets in all of this, it’s the connection between love and blank fear. You fall in love with someone you’re fucked. Not in the good way either. No. In all the bad ways imaginable. You’re expected to commit. You’re expected to do all these little things. And stop with your own bullshit. You’ll end up caged and unhappy or alone and unhappy. He personally prefers the latter.

“I know that doesn’t excuse what I said. But maybe it explains…” Steve turns away. “I fucked everything up. And I still couldn’t stop thinking of you when I was alone on that goddamn plane. Couldn’t stop thinking of her either. I don’t know what to do. I’m really sorry I hurt your feelings.”

A part of his brain tells Javi to throw Steve out on his ass right now. Quid pro quo. His first instinct is to nip this off in the bud.  
Something doesn’t let him, though, something he has tried to shove away and hide under the rug in his mind. Unfortunately, it has taken deep roots there months ago already and ever since Javi has slept in the same bed with Murphy, it has been pushing its way into the light relentlessly.

There’s an ache in his chest for something he thought he was done with forever. A feeling he told himself he wouldn’t ever have again. Because it was better for all involved if he didn’t.

“Steve,” he croaks and puts his hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “I – I thought about you, too. _Fuck._ I missed you. Okay?”

It’s the best he can do as far as words go.

“You did?” Steve looks at him with a pained expression between incredulity and hopeful longing.

Javi’s nod is silent but it’s definitely there.

“Didn’t think anyone could hurt me like that again,” he admits.

“Nothing ever gets to Javier Peña, right,” Steve whispers.

Javi bites his lower lip and shrugs. “ _You_ do.”

He reaches out and gently cups Murphy’s face in his hands. “Say you’re sorry. Say _it_ again.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve repeats in earnest. His cheeks are flushed and the ruddy skin feels hot under Javi’s fingertips.

“I love you.”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._ This is it. Javi gives up.

He leans in and presses his mouth on Steve’s. “You win,” he mutters against his lips. “I’m done fighting these feelings I have for you. Just promise me this is for real.”

“It is. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a conversation with a wonderful tumblr friend. Thank you. <3
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